


In the Tidemother's Wake

by wanderingaesthetic



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8934031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingaesthetic/pseuds/wanderingaesthetic
Summary: Noctis mourns messily. Prompto watches.





	

Prompto has spent most of the past few days alone. Ignis hovers near Noctis and Gladio hovers near them both. None of them pay Prompto any mind.

Prompto is grateful that Noctis was awake, but the prince’s presence is like an open wound. He lolls around the First Secretary’s mansion, staring out the open window, or leans on a railing outside, staring unseeing over the canals. He clutches himself and shivers occasionally, even in the midday sun. He paces, but slowly, like each step physically hurts. His posture and movements are so tight Prompto thinks he can feel Noctis’ tension in his own muscles when he stands near him.

Prompto wants to reach out to him. He hovers nearby, willing himself to put a hand on his shoulder.  He rehearses the action in his mind, but what the hell can he say?

 _I’m sorry?_ Inadequate.

 _It’ll be okay?_ It won’t.

He almost says “We’ll make the Empire pay,” but that would only lay another burden at Noct’s feet, and with Ignis blind and Noctis shellshocked, Prompto isn’t so sure that they can, anymore.

What Noct needs, Prompto thinks, is someone that can hold him, someone like a parent, who can be strong for him while he screams and cries and falls apart, someone who can pick up the pieces afterward. Luna could have done it. But Luna is dead, and so is King Regis. Prompto thinks about trying it himself, his hand twitches toward his friend again, and he bites his lip.

But surely it would cause Noct more shame than comfort.

So he leaves, and walks through the city, alone.

The sun is bright, and the air wet and heavy. Altissia doesn’t look so bad, considering. The city blocks nearest the altar are gone, nothing but splintered boards clogging the canals. Shattered windows and caved roofs dot the city, and everywhere there are oddities: a gondola lodged in a second story window, a fish, dead and stinking on the sidewalk, an overturned flower cart in the canal, its wears floating all around it. Prompto pauses to take a picture here and there.

The work is some of his best, Prompto thinks, but maybe it’s the subject matter that elevates the photos. He thinks for a moment—he hasn’t technically declared a major yet, maybe photography instead of mechanical engineering, it may take an extra year, but—

He sighs down at the wet sidewalk, letting the camera drop to his hip on its strap. The University of Lucis is rubble. How does he keep forgetting?

He could be a freelance photographer with or without a degree, if Vyv’s opinion is worth anything. He lets the fantasy play out for a moment: travelogues, journalistic photography--but the thought of abandoning Noctis makes him feel sick. Prompto swore to himself that he would stay by his side until the end of the road, the one that ended with Noctis on the throne of Lucis. He has to stop thinking “maybe after,” because after isn’t a thing that is happening. “After” is a pine box, six feet under beside his brothers, if there’s even anyone left to bury them.

Strange, Prompto thinks over the hammering and shouting of clean-up crews. When he wasn’t distracting himself and the others, taking photos and making stupid jokes, he has spent most of the past few weeks terrified. Terrified of daemons and gods and the empire, terrified that he’ll die, or that Noct will.

Now that he’s almost certain that they will fail, he feels nothing. He’s not sure if what he’s feeling is acceptance or complete denial. His death will happen soon, so his entire existence is this day, stretching his legs and cataloguing this beautiful and ruined city.

 

**

“Where the hell have you been?” Gladio practically pounces on him as he opened the door to the suite they’ve been allowed to use.

“Nice to see you too, big guy.”

“Where’s Noct?” Gladio demands.

“I… He was here when I left? On the walkway outside?”

“He’s not with you?”

“Uh… no?”

“So you _left_ him, by himself?”

“You and Ignis were here! Not to mention all the secretary’s guys. What, is he missing?”

“Yes!”

“Oh.”

Gladio grimaces and lets out a small roar of frustration. Prompto is pretty sure Gladio would be more angry with him if Gladio weren’t so angry at himself.

“We have to find him,” Gladio says, grabbing up his jacket. “Iggy, I’m sorry, but you’re not much use on a search and rescue right now.”

Prompto had barely noticed Ignis, facing away from them in a high-backed chair. He waves a hand at them. “Don’t concern yourself, I assure you I’ve lasted this long without you waiting on me hand and foot. Go. Find our charge.”

Prompto nods, then remembers and says “Right. Leave it to us.” Gladio trots across the room to Ignis and squeezes his hand for a moment before turning to go.

“You know, that was really thoughtful of you,” Prompto says in a low voice as they exit the front gate.

“What?”

“Holding Ignis’ hand like that. I wouldn’t have thought to do that.”

“Well I can’t smile at him, so I just…” Gladio frowns down at him, looking embarrassed.

“I’m just glad one of us has some clue how to handle this. So… any idea where to look?”

“No. We’ll have to canvass the whole city. You take the lower levels, I’ll take the upper levels. Call if you find him. Or if you run into anything worse than you can handle.”

“You guys… did try to call Noct, right?” Prompto asks.

“Who the hell do you think I am?”

“Right. Let’s go then.”

The sun is low in the sky. Much of the city lost power in Leviathan’s wake, and Prompto doesn’t relish having to fight off daemons on his own. He only hopes Noct is in a relatively untouched part of town.

Fortunately, it doesn’t take long to find him.

Maahgo’s had been hit hard. The tables and chairs were washed away, and the floor is water-stained and strewn with rubble, but the lights are on and the bar is somehow intact, as is its proprietor.

“Hello, young man, I think you’ve found what you’re looking for,” Weskham calls as Prompto steps off the gondola.

Indeed, Noctis is there in his Lucian blacks, sitting in the sole bar stool, resting his head on his arms on the bar.

“I’ve devised a new drink in honor of the times,” Weskham says, drawing up another bar stool from nowhere and gesturing at a half-finished, pale blue drink in a curvy glass in front of Noctis. “I’ve called it ‘The Tsunami.’ Would you like one?”

“Uh… not right now. Hey, Noct,” Prompto says gently, giving his shoulder a shake. “You gave Gladio a real scare disappearing like that. Next time take your phone with you. Is this where you’ve been the whole time?”

Noctis nods without sitting up or even opening his eyes. “Got drunk. Didn’t help.”

Prompto glances up at Weskham. He must read Prompto’s look of alarm because he says. “I assure you I would not have let Regis’ son come to harm in my establishment. He’s as safe with me as he is with you.”

Prompto sort of doubts that, especially since Noct’s eyes aren’t quite focused as he peers at Prompto.

“Didn’t think you liked alcohol, buddy.” Prompto has never seen him drunk before. Noct never could stand the taste for long enough for it to touch him.

“This stuff isn’t bad. Sweet.”

“How much of this did you drink?”

Noctis’ rolls his eyes to a corner of the room for a second, then holds up a finger on one hand, and five on the other.

And Noctis has zero drinking experience and who knew what was in those things. Great.

“Ooookay, I’m gonna call Gladio and let him know you’re okay, and then we’re gonna get you back home,” he says, reaching for his phone. “Or back, well. You know.”

“Nononono,” Noctis says, reaching for Prompto’s phone, but Prompto’s sober reflexes are better than Noct’s drunken ones, and he jerks away. “Don’t tell Gladio! Please. He’s gonna hate me.”

“He’s gonna hate _me_ more if I don’t tell him you’re okay,” Prompto says, Gladio’s phone already ringing.

“ _What’s up? Did you find him?”_ Gladio’s voice says.

“Yeah. He’s fine.”

 “ _Where? Do you need me to come to you?_ ”

“No. I’ll tell you later. He’s gonna need a minute. I’ll bring him back, may be late.”

“ _Don’t you dare leave him again._ ”

“I _won’t_. See ya.” He swipes to end the call and sits beside Noct at the bar. “So…. Uh. You wanna talk about anything?”

Noctis shakes his head.

“Right.”

They sit in silence for a long moment

“Why are you here?” Noctis asks eventually.

“Because you disappeared, dude. We thought you might be dead or something.”

“No,” Noctis says hoarsely, putting his face in one hand and seeming to struggle with words for a second. “Why are you _here?_ Why’re you still here? With me. Following me.”

“You asked me to stand with you at your wedding.”

“Well that’s not happening now,” Noctis says bitterly. “So why are you still here?”

Prompto stares at him a moment, his stomach sinking. “Where else would I be? I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

 “Is that all?”

 _He’s drunk,_ Prompto reminds himself. _He doesn’t mean this._ “You know it isn’t.”

“I didn’t mean—I don’t mean…” Noctis’ face contorts. He rocks back and forth on the barstool. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Noct,” Prompto sighs. “Pretty sure I’m on the Empire’s Most Wanted list right below you. I have _literally_ killed for you. I am way, _way_ past the point of no return here. If you wanted me gone, you should’ve said something a long time ago.”

“It’s just…. Iggy, Gladio, serving the crown is their whole life. You’re only here because I wanted you here.”

“Noct, if you didn’t want me here I’d still be in the Crown City, and I’d probably be dead.”

 “Don’t,” Noctis said.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t die. Don’t talk about…. I know… I know they made you swear to protect me or die trying, back at the Citadel. But _don’t_. Don’t take any bullets for me, please. Step out of the way and let ‘em hit me. I can’t stand—“ he sputters a little bit, squeezing his eyes shut against tears. “I can’t—it _hurts._ I can’t—I would rather be dead. I would rather be blind. I don’t want. I don’t—“ his voice breaks on a sob.

Prompto panics. This isn’t the first time Noct has cried on their journey. He’s had a lot to cry about—honestly, they all have, and every time Noct has cried, Prompto tried to look away, to ignore it and pretend it wasn’t happening. He told himself it was to keep Noctis from being embarrassed.

But he also can’t stand to look at Noctis and see him hurt.

But the two of them are alone, and he’s sitting right next to him, and Prompto can’t ignore it this time.

“Oh, _Noct,_ ” he says, and puts a hand to his back. The touch is awkward at first, but Prompto slides his arm around Noctis and leans into him while Noctis’ shoulders shake under his arm.

“I know, okay?” Prompto says, and if Noct is listening to him at all, he knows that Prompto is crying too now. “Etro knows I hate seeing _you_ hurt.”

Noctis’ breath eventually slows to normal. Weskham coughs from the other side of the bar, and Prompto sees a stack of cloth napkins—miraculously clean and dry—have materialized at his elbow.

Prompto lets out a weak, coughing laugh and hands one to Noctis.

**


End file.
